Marsh Morning

As the sun rises, mist hangs above the marsh
as though ocean climbed high in the night,
as though great seas cover mighty flames,
as though troubles must be drowned.

Tall goldenrod and purple loosestrife sit low
in the tide, as though to hide their colors,
as though to hang on to good fortune,
the sun, and bravery of the seasons.

for the 3rd and final stanza, see Tiny Seed Journal